l let it be an
hour; and then, he not coming, what should she do? Go to him? No, she
would never dare, never presume to do that. What then? steal
down-stairs, a guilty, hateful thing, softly open the door which would
never open to her again, and run away through the snow? The world would
be before her, but snow and ice would but faintly symbolize its
coldness. Was it likely that heaven itself would yield her entrance
after her father's door had closed upon her?

But would not Sophie prevail, and turn his heart to forgiveness? Oh!
but why was it not probable, and more than probable, that the argument
would result the other way?--that her father, by a clear and stern
representation of the real heinousness of her offense, would convince
Sophie that Cornelia was entitled to nothing but condemnation?
There would be nothing to urge against the justice of such a
sentence--nothing.

Perhaps Sophie's courage might fail her, or her strength give way,
leaving the ugly story but half told, and then her father would come to
her to learn the rest. What should she do then? How much more terrible
to be obliged to tell him then, after having made up her mind that her
sister was to take the burden off her shoulders, than it would have been
before any such resource had presented itself! How much more awful to
meet her father when aroused by suspicion and anger, and perhaps
loathing, than to begin her confession while his face was as she had
always seen it, when turned toward her--loving and tender!

She could not sit still, at last, but rose up from her chair to walk the
room--not from the old, restless energy, which needed physical exercise
to keep it within bounds, for Cornelia was now white and faint, from
exhaustion of mind and body, but from the tumult of pervading fear and
delusive hope--the attention strained to catch some sound from below,
and the dread lest it should never come. As the suspense grew more
painful, the rapidity of her walk increased.

She expected now, every moment, to catch herself shrieking aloud, or
performing some mad action or other. How long had she been up there
already? Was it an hour yet? It must be an hour. Oh! it was more. Was he
never coming, then?--never? O God! was there no forgiveness? Cornelia's
walk had gone on quickening until it was almost a run. She was circling
round and round the room, like a wild animal--was growing dizzy and
exhausted, but was afraid to stop: better her body should give